JAKE
by HepCatRaven
Summary: Part of a series done with a few friends. Jake's reaction and first memories of Jack after learning of Jack's possible death.


Jake turned from Sarah, he was never one to face confrontation well.  
  
Jack was hurt, badly. It was bouncing around in his mind, still unbelievable. He shook his head, thick hair falling in his eyes. "No."  
  
Jack was their leader, he _couldn't_ get hurt. He was the strongest, the invincible Jack Kelly.  
  
It seemed a hole had opened up in Jake's heart and was slowly burning its way through his chest. He removed his hat, shook out his hair, and put a hand to his chest. He groaned softly, sitting on the nearest bed, Skittery's.  
  
Absently he looked around the room at his friends. Their faces suddenly seemed so old. So matured. Davey's face, full of panic, was almost comical in its uncharacteristic-ness. At any other time, it would have been funny. But right now...  
  
Jake turned slowly and laid his head on the pillow at the head of the bunk. _I was playin' cards..._ He noted. _"Where were you when the infamous Cowboy died?"_ Asked a reporter in his mind. _No!_ Something in the back of his mind screamed. _Don't think like dat!_ His heart sped up at the thought of losing their leader. Would things ever be the same if Jack left? _Could_ they?  
  
-----  
  
Mackinley and Josephine Edwards smiled shyly at one another as their train crossed the state line, his hand creeping gently over hers. The young couple had come to New York like many their age, to seek a better life for themselves and their soon-to-be child.  
  
Josephine glanced at her husband from beneath her curly eyelashes. "I felt the baby again, Mac." She whispered.  
  
Mackinley's dark brown eyebrows shot up excitedly. "You did?" His hand went instantly to her swollen belly.  
  
His wife laughed, her dark green eyes sparkling happily. She watched her husband as he felt their child's movement beneath her skin. "He's got lots of spirit in 'im, Mac."  
  
Mackinley looked up at his wife lovingly. "Jus' like his mother."  
  
She blushed pink and smiled back at him.  
  
-----  
  
**Five Months Later**  
  
-----  
  
"Edwards!" The foreman's deep voice bellowed throughout the factory.  
  
Mackinley winced and wiped his brow with a greasy forearm. He turned to look up at his boss.  
  
"My office, now!"  
  
Sighing heavily, Mac climbed the iron steps to what felt like his doom. He pushed the already-cracked door softly and rapped on the splintering wood with his knuckles.  
  
"Sir?" He stepped inside, removing his hat and clutching it with sweating hands.  
  
"Mac, I like you, kid."  
  
Taken aback, Mac was unsure of how to respond. He mumbled a "thank you" while his boss moved the conversation forward atop his words.  
  
"But I like my company more."  
  
All at once Mac's heart jumped in his throat, then plummeted to his worn shoes. He swallowed thickly. "Yes sir."  
  
"And if someone is endangering my company," The man turned in his chair to look at his hard-working employee. "I'll make sure to see that they're taken care of." He shifted his gaze to outside his office and down at a thin redheaded teen.  
  
Mac knew the boy his employer was now eyeing harshly. His name was Patrick; he was a new employee and fresh off the immigration boat. He stuck out like a sore thumb, but put his heart and soul in his work, meaningless as it was. "Sir? I don't understand what you mean." Mac furrowed his brow as he watched his co-worker.  
  
"That boy. What's his name?"  
  
"Pa-patrick, sir." Mac's throat tightened on the words, as if meaning to choke him.  
  
"I want him out of here, and you get to go tell him." The foreman smiled cruelly, knowing that Mackinley Edwards could never go through with the order.  
  
"I can't, sir."  
  
"Why not?" The foreman peered at Mac over his fingertips with interest. "What if I told you your job was at stake?"  
  
Becoming a little agitated, Mac rested a hand on his hip. "My job, sir? Why would my job have anything to do with my not—"  
  
"With your not following instructions?" The boss supplied.  
  
_Not exactly where I was going with that..._ Exasperated, Mac held up his hands defensively. "Sir, please—"  
  
"You may leave now, I've finished with you."  
  
The sentence slammed like a heavy prison door and echoed inside Mackinley's head.  
  
-----  
  
Mac descended the metal stairs shakily. Patrick was at the bottom, anxiously awaiting a detailed report.  
  
"Patrick. I was jus' going...to come find you." He mustered a weak smile.  
  
Patrick's brows shot up. "Really?" His mouth became dry and his voice cracked boyishly.  
  
Mac rubbed the back on his aching neck and ran a rasping tongue over his dry lips. "Yeah. Uhh...I – I got let go."  
  
The red brows furrowed in response. "They let you go?" His eyes flashed angrily. "You're one 'a tha best workers they got! How dare they—"  
  
"No, Patrick, please don't yell!" Mac held up his hands to silence the youth. "I'm fine with it, really." He raised one side of his mouth in a half-smile. "It'll give me more time to be with Jo..." He trailed off, both of them knowing that he was lying through his teeth. "Look, don't get mad, alright? Jus'...be thankful you still have a job."  
  
The Irishman opened his mouth again in protest.  
  
"Jus' – do it, please. For me. I'll see ya 'round." He clapped Patrick on the shoulder and walked out the door without looking back.  
  
-----  
  
"Josephine?" Mackinley peered inside the doorway for his wife. "Jo?"  
  
Josephine lifted herself off the couch, grunting softly, and came to the door smiling. "Hey sugah." She kissed his rough cheek.  
  
Mac grabbed his wife's hand and squeezed it. "Jo, I got—" He looked into his wife's dark green eyes and knew he wouldn't be able to tell her. "I mean, I forgot to get the bread." He smiled sheepishly. "I'll go back out as soon as I get a chance." _At least he called me into his office near the end of the day...makes it easier...for everyone._  
  
"That's fine, I don't need it for a while anyway." She smiled up at him and patted his cheek. "How was work?" She waddled into their sitting room, patting the cushion next to her.  
  
Mac trudged along behind her, hating every second that went by with his lie hanging heavy in the air. "Fine, fine. You know that Irish kid? Patrick? The one I'm always talking about?"  
  
She nodded, her curly hair bouncing.  
  
"Yeah...he's – he's real nice."  
  
Her forehead wrinkled. "You okay, Mac?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, yeah." A smile flickered across his face. "Jus' real tired, that's all."  
  
"Ah believe it! All tha hard work you do." She leaned over best she could and kissed his temple. "Why don't you go get tha bread now?"  
  
He patted her knee in return. "I think I'll do jus' that."  
  
-----  
  
Mackinley smiled over his shoulder when he went out of their building, just in case Josephine happened to be watching. As soon as he was sure there was no way of her seeing him, he broke down.  
  
Banging his fists against the side of the brick building, he let out a guttural cry. He fell to the walk in a crumpled heap, sobbing into his hands, occasionally rocking back and forth. He was still like that half an hour later when a crowd had begun to form.  
  
-----  
  
"Is he dead?"  
  
"No, he's moving. You can't really tell right off, but he is."  
  
A shoe dug into Mac's rib cage sharply and he threw his head back, eyes blazing and red. "Back off." He growled, arms clutching his sides.  
  
The small throng swiftly followed his advice, stepping a good five paces backward in their pointed fifteen-dollar shoes.  
  
A vendor slowly approached Mac, holding his hands out defensively. "Look, mistah. Youse gotta get outta—"  
  
"I'll leave when I damn well please!" He shouted, spittle flying from – and clinging to – his lips.  
  
The vendor drew back sharply, his features a mix of disgust and pity; he had seen many a homeless man laying on the walk, but never one so violent.  
  
Stumbling to his feet and swaying from side to side as if inebriated, Mac stood, wobbling for the crowd.  
  
The people slowly dissipated, either from loss of interest or out of plain abhorrence.  
  
Mac planted his feet firmly on the sidewalk, knees knocking like a newborn calf's. One last dry sob came up from his chest and shook him hard, causing his knees to cease their movement. His legs then turned to lead, rooting him to his spot. He dragged his feet together, heels clicking lazily. _Get a grip on yourself, Mackinley!_ He lifted his tired eyes toward home.  
  
-----  
  
The door opened with little sound, but Josephine Edwards' nerves stirred nonetheless. Her chest tight, she sprang from their tattered sofa. "Mackinley?" She called out in a strangled voice. _Please, God, let that be my husband…_  
  
Mac strode heavily through the doorway to the living room, gazing listlessly at his loving wife, a loaf of bread under his arm. He swallowed, his dry throat threatening to close on his words.  
  
Though a wave of relief washed over her, Josephine's heart leapt into her throat as her husband paused.  
  
He blinked slowly and opened his mouth "I got fired." He finally managed to choke out. He held the bread out a little pathetically. "But – but I got the bread."  
  
Josephine smiled and it was like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day. She took a few steps toward him and opened her arms, pulling him close. "Oh Mackinley, my darling Mackinley..." She stroked his head as if he were a child, murmuring into his ear.  
  
He closed his eyes and focused on her heartbeat.  
  
-----  
  
The weeks passed and Mackinley was barely able to keep his small family alive. He bounced from odd job to odd job, working his fingers to the bone and collapsing, exhausting when he returned home every day.  
  
Josephine's pregnancy went along as planned, and halfway through her ninth month Mackinley broke the news that he hadn't found work recently.  
  
He confessed that he feared it to be merely the beginning of their hard times.  
  
-----  
  
Mackinley's prediction was right. The weeks before their child was born were rough, rougher than the two had ever experienced. Food was scarce and Josephine's husband was barely a notch above stealing. It was his love for his wife, and how much she prided her dignity that kept him from it.  
  
The day of the birth, Mackinley was eyeing a fruit vendor's cart just outside their building. He heard a muffled cry from inside, near their tiny apartment. Knowing his wife's voice instantly and forgetting his hunger, he took off up the stairs. He threw open the door and found his wife lying on the bed, their only remaining furniture.  
  
"Mackinley, I've been meaning to talk to you about the rent—oh God." A voice spoke behind him but he didn't hear it. He slowly crept closer, not knowing what to do. Shaking himself back to reality and grabbed Jo's hand. "Jo? Josephine, darlin', it's gonna be okay."  
  
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she managed to wheeze out a laugh. "Of course it's gonna be okay. I'm havin' a baby, not dyin', Mac."  
  
His brown eyes widened and a smile broke out on his face. He whirled around to face the landlord, a small, pale man twisting his hat in his hands. "Go get a mid-wife!" He cried out to him, the man taking off down the hall. Mackinley – try as he might – couldn't wipe the smile off his face.  
  
The little man returned a minute later and the mid-wife he'd found went to work quickly.  
  
Mackinley stayed by his wife's side the entire time, only moving to fetch towels or hot water as instructed by the mid-wife.  
  
Their child was born nine excruciating hours later, a healthy baby boy.  
  
-----  
  
Wiping her hands on a towel, the mid-wife – Dora – drew a hand across her brow and smiled at the couple. "He is beautiful." She said, her Spanish accent thick. She jotted down some things on a paper, the baby's weight, length, sex, and the like. She glanced up as she came back to the name. "What is he called?"  
  
The two had thought about names months in advance. If it was a girl, Christine Tabitha, after their mothers. If it was a boy: Jarred Andrew Kyle, named for Mackinley's younger brother, and their fathers.  
  
Josephine gave a tired smile. "Jarred Andrew Kyle Edwards."  
  
-----  
  
**A Week Later**  
  
-----  
  
Food was no less scarce than before little Jarred had come along, and now every bit they came across was saved for him.  
  
Josephine was extremely weakened by the birth, and her health only deteriorated afterwards. Mackinley did all he could for her, but starving himself, it wasn't much.  
  
A knock came at the door one evening, just before the couple retired. Mackinley grumbled softly and threw open the door, a scowl on his handsome face. The scowl turned to shock as moonlight fell on their visitor's face.  
  
"Patrick." He said softly.  
  
"Hello, Mr. Edwards." The youth said nervously.  
  
The voice brought new tears to his eyes, but he brushed them away, ushering the boy inside.  
  
Patrick shook his head. "I cannae stay." He glanced up and down the hall. "I got married, Mr. Edwards." He smiled, fidgeting. "I know what you did." He changed the subject suddenly, sobering. "And because 'a that, I was able ta ask Angela ta marry me." His cheeks turned pink at the mention of her name, clashing with the red-brown freckles on his skin. "I guess – I guess I jus' wanted to say thank you."  
  
Mac, who had quietly listened to the young man's story, was once again struck speechless. He swallowed. "Well." He paused, then looked up, eyes shining. "You're welcome." Before he could do anything more he found himself wrapped up in Patrick's arms.  
  
"Thank ya so much Mr. Edwards. I'm sorry I dinnae come sooner, an' if there's ever annaething you need me ta do jus' say it and it's done." It all spilled out in a rush as the men embraced.  
  
After the two had finished, they waved goodbye and Patrick walked down the hall, feeling as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.  
  
-----  
  
Josephine fought hard to stay with her husband for as long as she could, but it was becoming more evident each day that she did not have much longer and that her husband probably was not too far behind her in that vein. "Take care of Jarred." She whispered one night as he lay sleeping, their child in between them. She brushed a lock of hair from her husband's eyes. "For as long as you can, you fight and you take care of him, y'hear?" She murmured, her voice breaking. "I love you both. So much. Don't you ever forget that. I'll always love you and I'll watch over you, I promise." She leaned close and kissed both of them. She put a hand to her mouth, not wanting to cry, calmed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.  
  
She never awoke.  
  
-----  
  
The next day, Mackinley found his wife cold in the bed and found himself unable to cease his crying until the baby's screams outdid his own. The coroners came, taking both his wife and the last of their money.  
  
For a few days he tried his best, knowing that it would never work out. And it didn't.  
  
Not knowing what to do any longer, Mackinley packed up Jarred's things and started down the street. He remembered Patrick's promise from that night a week ago, and prayed he was a man of his word.  
  
"I love you, Jarred. You know that." He said into his offspring's ear as they went on their way. "But there's no way I can do this. I won't subject you to this any longer. You deserve better. My only hope is that one day you'll understand, and maybe you'll forgive me for what I'm about to do." He marched up the steps to the O'Connell's place and banged the knocker. "I love you." He whispered, voice breaking.  
  
Patrick answered, baffled at the sight he saw on his front stoop. A man he barely recognized as Mackinley Edwards thrust a baby into his arms. The night at the apartment had been a dark one, and so this was his first real look at the new Mackinley. His cheeks were gaunt and his clothes nearly fell off of his body. His teeth were yellowing and his hair was matted, nearly plastered to his head. "Jaysus, Mary, an' Joseph." Patrick muttered, crossing himself.  
  
"You told me that if I ever needed anything done, to just say it and it'd be done." He licked his cracked lips. "Well I need something now." He pointed to the direction they had just come. "I can't keep my child. I can't take care of him. I'm dying, Patrick." He pointed to the baby now. "And he deserves better." He mustered a withered smile. "I know you're a good man – no, a great man. And you can do what I couldn't: give this child a home, with the love he needs." He thrust the makeshift birth certificate at him. "Here. His name is Jarred Andrew Kyle Edwards." He stepped up and kissed the soft head, stroking it lovingly with a shaking hand. "I love you." He said one last time. Mackinley Edwards turned away before the tears could fall and walked back to his apartment as quickly as he could, stumbling and sobbing the entire way.  
  
-----  
  
Mackinley died the night he gave his son away. Though the doctor's attributed his death to malnutrition and exhaustion, everyone who saw the body recognized a broken heart when they saw one.  
  
-----  
  
Jarred had been staying with the O'Connells for almost a year before the couple fell on hard times, making the near-impossible decision of giving him to an orphanage. He lived at the orphanage for twelve more years until setting out to make a living on the eve of his thirteenth birthday.  
  
-----  
  
Jarred Edwards sat as close as possible to the train's window, the cold metal pressing against his arm reassuringly. He glanced down at his swiftly whitening knuckles and the fingers attatched to them, which were curled around the handle of his lunch pail. Thinking about the meager lunch within depressed him further. He quickly turned his attention back to the passing countryside.  
  
"Ticket, please."  
  
The thirteen-year old turned toward the voice, large doe eyes blinking innocently. He sat, stunned for a second, then withdrew the paper from his pocket.  
  
"New recruit, huh, son?"  
  
Jarred nodded slowly, _don't talk to strangers,_ echoing in his mind.  
  
The ticket-taker chuckled to himself, shaking his head, and moved to the next set of seats.  
  
"Psst!" A hiss came from across the aisle. "Psst!"  
  
He whipped his head around, praying it wasn't some kind of train-riding snake. His eyes fell on a mop of greasy brown hair almost hidden beneath a black, oversized cowboy hat.  
  
"Heya." The young boy beneath the hat grinned widely. "Where ya goin'?" He scooted closer to Jarred.  
  
Jarred clutched his lunch tightly. "Do-Do-Don't talk to strangers." He stuttered out flatly.  
  
The small cowboy raised an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose. "What?" He laughed. "Listen, ya gonna hafta get used ta it if ya goin' where I think ya goin'."  
  
"Are – are you a cowboy?"  
  
He grinned widely. "Nah! I'se from New York. Dat's North 'a heah an' den some."  
  
"I know where it is." Jarred defended himself sharply, not sure whether or not he actually did.  
  
"No, I ain't a cowboy yet. How 'bout you?"  
  
"Wait, what 'a ya mean, 'not yet'?"  
  
"Well, see, I'se on me way ta Santa Fe ta meet me Pa." He tipped his hat to a passing woman and continued. "We's gonna start a ranch an' stuff."  
  
"Oh." Jarred paused. "Well, I'm on me—I mean my—way to help on the railroads." He smiled weakly.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Jarred blinked blankly. "'Cause – 'cause...I was told to." He realized suddenly. "I was sent by the orphanage to work here, since I'm old enough and all."  
  
The wearer of the black hat sat for a second, then extended a hand. As if on second thought, he retracted it, spit on his palm, then returned it to its outstretched position.  
  
Jarred stared at the appendage. "Am I s'pposed to..."  
  
"Spit in ya own hand an' shake? Yeah. Da name's Fra—I mean, Jack, by da way."  
  
Awkwardly, Jarred followed suit. "Jarred. Actually, my full name's Jarred Andrew Kyle Edwards, but I guess Jarred's okay for now." He smiled in spite of his saliva-ridden palm.  
  
Jack whistled low. "Dat's quite a name ya got dere, Jarred. Got anythin' else we can cawl youse?"  
  
He thought hard, then shook his head. "I haven't ever had a nickname 'a nothin'."  
  
Snapping his fingers, Jack smiled. "Don'tcha inishuls spell somethin'?"  
  
_Jarred Andrew Kyle Edwards..._  
  
"Yeah! Jake!"  
  
"'Aite, Jake it is!"  
  
The newly dubbed Jake grinned broadly. "I like it."  
  
The train began to slow and a voice drifted over the boys' heads. "Carlton County Railroad Station!" The whistle blew shrilly.  
  
Jack turned to Jake. "Say, why don'tcha come wid me?"  
  
"To Santa Fe?" Jake gaped. "I—I can't!"  
  
"No, not Santa Fe! Back ta New York! It ain't too much farther, an' me pa can wait a few days. I gotta settle ya somewheres. I can't jus' leave a kid like you ta fend for hisself."  
  
Jake smiled, deciding not to point out that Jack was not much older than he was. "Sounds good."  
  
-----  
  
They arrived at the train station about an hour later, the entire ride filled with fantastic stories of cowboys and Indians narrated by Jack.  
  
Putting an arm around his new friend's shoulders, Jack led Jake around the city, showing him the sights and teaching him everything he needed to know. The came across a 'Newsboys Lodging House' after a while, and Jake inquired after it.  
  
Jack smiled his charming smile and gestured to the door. "Dis is ya new home!" He leapt up the stairs and stood proudly. "A lil place I like ta call da Lodgin' House." He pushed the door open and leaned his head inside. "Were home!" He called, grinning as he was bombarded.  
  
Jake stood quietly at the bottom of the steps, unsure of what to do next.  
  
"Kloppman! We gots a new one! Heya, Race!"  
  
An elderly gentleman showed his face around the doorframe and smiled warmly down at Jake. "Welcome." He said, beckoning to him with a hand. "C'mon in, we'll getcha settled."  
  
-----  
  
Kloppman licked the end of a pen and prepared to write. "What's ya name?" He peered over his glasses. "Or do ya need a new one?" His eyes sparkled mischievously.  
  
Jake smiled shyly. "No, I've already got a new one." _I think five's enough. _ He grinned.  
  
"That Cowboy's a quick one, I'll give 'im that." He shook his head. "Alright, what is it?"  
  
"Jake. An' I'm 13. April 13th." He filled in the rest of the sheet verbally.  
  
Kloppman gave a low chuckle. "Woah there, fella. Slow down."  
  
"Sorry," Jake apologized sheepishly. "I guess I'm just excited."  
  
The owner of the Lodging House paused and looked the boy in the eyes. "Well you should be. You're home now."


End file.
